Hall 3C4
by noxbocksty
Summary: The watchman had learned that every night the art in Hall 3C.4 came alive. He didn't think too hard on it: they were just pieces of art, they didn't have actual human emotions. That is where he was wrong. USUK, DenNor, Franada. Art AU.


The night watchman had long since learned that at midnight every night on the spot, the art in Hfall 3C.4 came alive. He avoided it, trying to drive away the surrealness that permeated the museum at that time, instead patrolling everywhere else but Hall 3C.4. He didn't talk to them much, just let them go about their business. They weren't destroying anything, or defacing one another… they didn't even go outside of their own rooms.

The people in the paintings would move to other paintings, or the statues would meander throughout the rooms with each other, or the statues would walk to sit in front of the paintings. They did nothing but converse, enjoying each others' company.

The night watchman didn't think too hard on it. The statues could defend themselves and their brethren from any would-be thieves. And they were just works of art, anyway- they didn't have actual human emotions.

This is where the night watchman was wrong.

Alfred F. Jones, better known as _Glorious_, had taken his name after the man who had applied the oil paints to create him. He was a relatively new painting, compared to a lot of the others, but he was critically lauded and well loved by patrons and curators alike. Small children would first totter up, sometimes, attracted by all the bright colors surrounding him in a chaotic swirl, followed by their parents, who would look and murmur in appreciation at the fluid blend. Or maybe the order would be reversed or in a different order. But Alfred loved children so much, reminded of Mr. Jones' young daughter Amelia, a sunshine-and-rainbows girl who always had a grin on her face and was her father's cherished joy after his wife had died. It was Amelia who inspired the vibrant colors and pulsing smile that made him complete.

It was an utter miracle he had even noticed the chalk drawing across from him.

Arthur Kirkland was the subject of _Piece 4_, a depiction of a young man sitting at a small table with a grey-blue background, a book in his hands, a teacup on his table, and head bowed so his features were obscured but for his eyes. At first glance it didn't look like much, so it was those flashes of light that first caught Alfred's attention as he gazed out one day from his painting at the people in the Hall. He had been staring out from that position ever since he'd been placed in this museum, but he'd only just noticed the bright green from an otherwise washed out color set. But that's what made the painting so powerful, he supposed.

So, that night, Alfred set out to meet _Piece 4._

The young man called himself Arthur Kirkland, after his ailing creator's son. He got his prominent spirit (which was another way to say 'attitude') from his eyes, and when he touched Alfred black chalk rubbed off on his skin like soot. Arthur seemed dreadfully embarrassed by this, and grey-pink had flooded his white, white cheeks. All colors present on him were grayish and blurry except for his eyes, which stood out like a rose in a bomb site. He and Alfred were so different: in nature, subject, and medium. Despite all that, Alfred found himself journeying through his neighbors' frames, through African grassland to a misshapen jazz café to a giant fruit bowl, all to reach the foggy surroundings that Arthur resided in. In the beginning, the older man seemed surprised every time Alfred showed up with his un-dimming jubilance, as if it were strange that someone would pay attention to him other than art critics. As time went on, however, Arthur grew used to his company and eventually met Alfred halfway in unoccupied frames. They would talk about peculiar patrons of the day, gossip from the statues or other paintings, whatever they knew: it was a wide variety of topics. Arthur was very knowledgeable and once prodded into opening up it was found he wished to tell everything he knew since Alfred was such a good listener for him, always inquisitive and asking questions. Maybe they would argue (they were very different after all) but it was all in good fun.

A human had left behind an iPod in the Hall once, so Eduard had rigged it up to the sound system. Alfred had pulled him up to dance in the chessboard-castle and they twirled and generally had good fun until sunrise. Both of them remembered it as one of the best times they had ever had.

The settings in other frames didn't change Arthur's pale and nearly colorless complexion, but Alfred didn't mind; he liked his companion just the way he was.

One day, Alfred was just starting to set off when Arthur appeared in his swirling hurricane of colors, blinking at the brightness and amazed by all the color, clutching his book tighter in bewilderment.

And the shifting light, like stain glass windows shards carried by birds tripping on California Sunshine and flying wherever the hell they wanted for summer, patterned itself over Arthur's face and his eyes shone brighter and it was just _glorious._

Alfred could do nothing but press kisses over all the fleeting patches of color on Arthur's face, catching his lips every now and then, and Arthur was too shocked to respond but Alfred continued, because Arthur had always been beautiful but this had made him realize just how much and what did it matter if there was pastel rubbing off in him when the pastel was Arthur?

Arthur. Arthur, Arthur. Arthurarthurarthur. He was gorgeous.

Alfred's mind was spinning like his surroundings as they kissed languidly in the vortex of light and he felt complete.

[_]

Niels Anderson was a rather lucky statue. His sculptor had made him sitting on the edge of his high pedestal with his feet dangling off the rim, staring down with bored eyes at the viewers below. He was atypical, too, as he was made of marble painted with light colors to look nearly human. He was titled _Apathy in Height_ and was supposed to be some sort of philosophical statement.

He was _fascinating._

Mathias Kahler, or _Red Dane_, was made of red clay and was down at eye level (although a bit taller) with the museum-goers. He had sharp features and a confident, if a little arrogant, stance. He, unlike Niels, was not representing any statement (some critics, however, insisted that he was) but instead was based off a portrait of his maker's father. Every night he would wrench his feet from his podium and take a walk around the Hall to stretch, maybe bother some of the others. Then he would sit at the bottom of Niels' tower and chatter, rambling off what was on his mind or Hans Christian Anderson (heh) tales. Niels ignored him at first, but Mathias was nothing if not persistent! So the slighter statue eventually started making scathing comments at Mathias' words. He didn't mind.

One night, he asked, "Hey, can you come down?"

"No."

"Whaaaaat? You mean you're stuck up there!" Mathias was aghast at this thought, very used to his freedom. Imagine not being able to walk around every night!

Niels gave an irritated huff at this. "No, anko. I can come down. I just choose not to."

Oh yeah, Niels had been here longer than him even though Mathias was older. "So come down!"

"No."

Pouting at this, Mathias went on to tell another fairytale.

Niels noticed Mathias was decidedly quiet. He had come over every night for a week interspersing pleas to come down and speak at eye level with him, which he refused and prompted another story (which he hated to admit he liked). Tonight, and last night, Mathias had not come over at all, preferring instead to talk with a friend of his. Niels did not like to say he did not like this, but it was true. He wasn't jealous, of course, but annoyed (yes, that was it: annoyed) at Mathias' unfinished fairytale from the last time. He wanted to know what happened, even if he could probably guess. The little girl would be invited inside by the rich family and enchant them with her matches' creations and earn their friendship, leaving her miserable street rat life behind. It was cliché, but fitting for the genre, and Niels felt the need to prove himself right.

Nothing more.

So, grimacing at the thought, he clambered down from his pedestal and seated himself on the bottom step of his pedestal, hoping the dimwitted statue would notice.

Mathias did see, eventually, and bounded over to sit next to his fellow with a grin spreading over his rusty-red face. "So you finally came around! Knew you would! Knew you loooo~ved me!"

Niels scoffed and shoved away the hand poking his cheek. "Don't be ridiculous. I just wanted to know the ending to the story you were telling me."

"Eh? You did?"

"Yes. Now, are you going to tell me or should I climb back up?"

"No, no!" Mathias quickly gathered his thoughts. "Um, yeah… so, um. Um… sorry, my mind is shit tonight."

"When isn't it?"

"Most of the time! Anyway, the passerby the next morning see her curled up with all the burnt matches around her. She froze to death." He shrugged, getting ready for the next request. There was silence, so he turned to his companion, startled to find tears trailing their way down the marble cheeks of the statue and an anguished expression wrenched on his features. "Ah! Niels!" he yelped, not knowing what to do. "What's wrong?"

"That's so unfair," Niels whispered. "I-I know it's foolish to get so emotional over a silly story, but…" he drew in a shuddering breath. The next sentence was almost inaudible. "… she was supposed to have a happy ending with the people with the Christmas tree, and she just… died…" He sniffed, and shook his head wildly to get rid of the tears seeing as wiping them with his hands would scuff up his skin, scowling at the display of emotion that went against his nature.

Mathias surprised both of them by kissing his cheeks in an effort to rid Niels of his sadness, because if Niels was to show any expression it should be happiness instead of sadness, and the former should be created by only Mathias and the latter cured by only him instead.

He drew back when the tears stopped flowing, neither of them commenting on what he just did.

"I think I should show you around to the others!" Mathias chirped to change the subject, tugging Niels' arm. "Come on, come on!" He stood up, dragging Niels up with him. Or at least he tried to; the smaller one let his arm slide in his grasp until all he held was his smooth, effeminate hand. "Let's go!" Mathias was confused.

"Moron, I can't." Niels stated boredly (whew, back to normal!). He jerked at his hand to remove it from his companion's grip, but Mathias kept a firm hold on it. He huffed in irritation. "I'm going back up."

"No you're not." Mathias' eyes held a dangerous glint. "I've finally gotten you down, I'm taking you to see the Hall."

Niels was scared, barely so though (his nature would not allow for such emotions). "Let me go this instant, Mathias!"

"Why can't you?" Mathias snapped, glaring down at Niels for a change. "Do you hate me that much? Am I that much of an annoyance that you can't spend ten minutes walking around with me even though I voluntarily spend so much time with you? What's your damn problem, Niels?"

"My legs don't work!" Niels burst out, frightened now at Mathias' sudden change in demeanor. "Are you happy, you fool? I can't stand, much less walk! Stop yelling at me!"

Mathias felt the rage seep out of him as he gazed a Niels' quivering form crumpled on the steps. He had terrified his best friend and forced out something he obviously didn't want to talk about. He was a horrible person.

"Niels, Niels, I'm sorry, so sorry," he murmured, crouching to meet Niels at eye level. "Forgive me, I didn't know…" His arms crept around the statue and pulled him slowly into a hug.

Finally, after a fearful silence, Niels spoke. "My creator, of course, did not know I would one day have the ability to walk. Something in the way he made me prevented my legs from being able to function properly."

"I'm sorry about that."

"We all have our problems."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while until Ludwig shouted the five minute warning, the order to get back to your places.

"How're you going to get up?" Mathias questioned.

Niels sent a rare playful smirk at Mathias and it affected him like a rock to the head. "Watch me."

Hooking his limp knees to the sides of the pillar, Niels dragged himself up to his perch at the top, and if he had a bloodflow Mathias would've… well. It was all he could do to stagger back to his own spot.

The next night, Niels climbed down and Mathias kissed him. Niels slapped him and Mathias kissed him again. Niels kissed back and Mathias grinned so wide he felt his mouth would fall off.

[_]

Francis was a statue, untitled, and he found it tragic to be in love with Matthew.

This wasn't his melodramatic side speaking out; it really was.

Matthew was the subject of _Cabin in Winter at Ft. Nelson_. He sat at the window of a small cottage surrounded by snow and every night he would trot out to meet Francis in his heavy winter gear.

Most people didn't notice Matthew sitting at the window unless they searched quite hard, but Matthew noticed everything in and out of the painting and had been so lonely before Francis had taken a closer look.

They could speak, of course, but unlike their companions in the rooms of the Hall, they could not hold hands, could not kiss, could not even touch each other.

It was tragic, and he wished at times for the fates to have willed him to have been a painting, or Matthew to have been a statue, but they would each lose something of themselves and that was unwanted. They could merely gaze at each other with melancholic eyes and wish to feel the other's touch.

[_]

AN: HA HA HA DEPRESSING ENDING WAS DEPRESSING HA HA HA. LIFE SUCKS FOR BIRACIAL WORKS OF ART IN LOVE HA HA HA no.

Paintings can travel between frames, much like in Harry Potter. Statues can apparently cry but cannot get hard, huh. There is a boundary in the paint screen (or whatever) so painting can't get out, leaving poor Mattie and Francis all sad. ):

The story (slightly yandere! :D) Denmark tells "The Little Match Girl," a super depressing story by Hans Christian Anderson, a bisexual Dane.

This was written to White Rabbit, by Jefferson Airplane.

Review? I'd freak out and love you and go read your stories and probably review them if I like them because I love making people happy. I'm just that flattered. (But don't go exploiting me now.)

Best regards, Zinc.


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